"Keys," he said.
I blinked. "You're already driving."
"Motel keys. We're stopping for the night."
"We're only an hour from—"
"I know where we are." His voice was steady, but I caught the edge underneath. "And I know what's happening to you. We're stopping."
I wanted to argue, but another tremor ran through my hands. He was right. I was compromised. The closer we got to Gabriel, the more my body remembered its training. An hour might as well be three minutes—I'd be useless like this.
We found a motel twenty minutes off the highway. The kind of place that dealt in cash and didn't ask questions about bloodstains or screaming. Nathan got us a room while I sat inthe car, focusing on breathing exercises that used to help before everything went to shit.
In. Hold. Out. Count to four.
But counting made me think of Gabriel's lessons.Everything makes you think of Gabriel's lessons,a voice whispered. Because everything you are came from him.
"Stop," I said aloud, then realized I was talking to myself in an empty car. Another bad sign. The spiral was starting earlier than usual.
The room was exactly what I'd expected—water-stained ceiling, carpet that had seen better decades, a bed that probably glowed under blacklight. Nathan locked the door behind us and set his bag on the dresser, movements deliberate and calm.
"Shower," he said. "Hot as you can stand it."
"I showered this morning—"
"That was before the shaking started." He turned to face me, and I saw the concern he usually kept hidden. "Before your body started remembering."
Remembering. Such a clean word for what was happening. My nervous system preparing for its creator. Every trained response warming up, ready to perform. Ready to be Daddy's good girl again.
I made it to the bathroom before I threw up.
Nathan held my hair back, not saying anything as I emptied the nothing in my stomach. When I was done, he ran the shower and helped me out of clothes that suddenly felt like they belonged to someone else.
"I can do it," I protested when he started to guide me under the water.
"I know you can." But he stayed anyway, sitting on the closed toilet lid while I stood under spray that burned away some of the crawling sensation.
"It's worse this time," I said, watching pink water swirl down the drain. Always pink these days. Always someone's blood being washed away. "The closer we get, the more my body responds. Like it knows."
"Trauma response," Nathan said. "Your nervous system recognizing the threat."
"Is that what you think it is? Fear?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "No. I think it's worse than fear."
I turned off the water and accepted the towel he handed me. "Then what?"
"Programming. The kind that goes deeper than thought. Your body preparing for someone who knew exactly how to use it."
The words hit like physical blows because they were true. Gabriel hadn't just trained my mind—he'd rewired my entire nervous system. Created responses that bypassed conscious thought. And now, hunting him, those responses were firing without input.
"I need..." I stopped, unable to finish. Need what? To not feel this. To be someone else. To burn out every synapse he'd ever touched.
"What do you need?" Nathan's voice was careful. Professional. But underneath, I heard something else. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
"I need it to stop." The words came out broken. "Just for a little while. I need my body to remember it's mine."
Something shifted in his expression. He stood, moving closer but not touching. "How?"
